


Fists Against the Posts

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Affectionate Insults, BAMF Mike, Banter, Ben Hanscom Loves Beverly Marsh, Best Friends, Bill Denbrough is a Good Friend, Canon Rewrite, Crying, Declarations Of Love, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Bantering, Epic Friendship, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Horror, Hugs, IT Chapter Two Fix-It, Mystery, POV Alternating, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie Tozier's Trashmouth, Stanley Uris Lives, Swearing, The Losers Club (IT) All Appear, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 08:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22847161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: Memories are fickle things, especially those of childhood. Especially those in a town with its own sort of glamour, a deceptive magic that keeps the citizens around, or draws them back in. To its particular brand of horror.After twenty-seven years, it's time to return.Some phone calls must be made.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom & Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris, Mike Hanlon & Ben Hanscom, Mike Hanlon & The Losers Club, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Back

_**Bill.** _

I had beaten it, you know. The fear, at least. Sure, I still wake up sweating sometimes, typically after writing a particularly intense or gory scene for a book. That's normal. And the stabbing guilt when I think about Georgie, that's normal too. At least it is for me.

But I got out of Derry, and so did my folks. I barely think about, hardly even remember when Derry was home, or my friends, and that pact we all made. All seems so long ago, like another life. Hazy. All of my memories from Derry are like that. Only the feelings are clear. And the scenes in my books, those are clear as crystal. Strong friendship and first love, mystery and intrigue and horror. They have everything, my publisher says-- everything except a happy ending. At most there's someone left to think on it all, to remember; but far more gruesome tales are there to tell. Which is my gift, apparently. I wish it wasn't. I wish I could, I want so much to write a truly happy ending where the evil is defeated once and for all.

But people don't want to read that, and life doesn't work out that way, I guess. 

But oh, I wish my fiction was, that it did.

I wish that more than anything. 

+++++++

_**Eddie.** _

It's a hard life, you know, when I do a write-up for a company to get them tax exemptions, or at least what they WANT to be tax-exempt, and then somebody blows up at me over running the numbers because I didn't do it right. I didn't give them what they wanted, is what it means. But this is math, this is what I can do. Just not what the CEO wants to see. So he comes or sends somebody to yell at me. I want to inform him of all the problems heightened rage can cause, like raising your blood pressure and cholesterol and stress level, and how people can have heart attacks pretty young, and if you keep drinking eight cups of coffee and eating what you eat then your arteries are gonna explode. 

But yeah no I can't say any of that, this guy's yelling at me, and then my wife will yell at me and demand why I didn't stick up for myself when I tell her. And I WILL tell her because she's gonna want to know why I'm still doing this company's accounts when I already went over them. Which I will be doing because this screaming man's steely gaze makes me all tingly and uncomfortable in certain places and I hear a voice inside my head scoff "...this fucking clown!" 

But said voice is definitely not my own, it's younger and distantly familiar but one I can't place. Beep beep, I think, incongruously, and suddenly I'm worn out. I need a vacation, someplace far from any place with super infectious diseases. So China is out. 

I don't even want to go back home.

++++++

_**Mike.** _

It's coming up, the time. Twenty-seven. I count down every day of every month, and have been doing that for awhile. Keeps me company, makes me think of my friends so that I'm not completely alone.

I never want to be alone again. 

Luckily I work in the Derry Hall of Records. Used to be weird how much I went in the library, all the time I spent there poring over stuff on the town. But now I can say I'm doing research for the record keeping, which is true. I'm making records of that thing. How long it has been here and when it first started coming. I know it's coming back. We didn't kill it, not then. We didn't have the tools. Just sent it away. 

Everyone's afraid of something. I know I am, which is why I do all my research and keep tabs on the Club.

So I can contact them all now, right now.

After twenty-seven years, Its time has come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers, I have been thinking about this group of friends, and had some changes to IT Chapter Two that I wanted to implement. Have Eddie as a CPA and Mike working in Records because that makes a bit more sense to me than company merging and library assistance. Anyhow, this will be a large undertaking --probably the most ambitious I've ever done-- because I'm going to be including all seven POVs from the Losers Club
> 
> The actors in IT 1 and 2 (2017 and 2019) have given me inspiration in action and looks, and Stephen King has with his words.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this, comments appreciated <3


	2. Call

+++++

_**Stan.** _

I recognize the number when it comes in. I wish to God I didn't, that I could just forget. I've been wishing that and trying for the last twenty-seven years. Feels like I'm having a midlife crisis, or something medical that Eddie would freak over. 

If my chest seizes up and aches he'd swear it was a heart attack. If I can't catch my breath, well then my lungs must be shutting down from a bacterial infection of some kind. Bill would tell me "Just t-take deep breaths, Stanley" and Richie would definitely roll his eyes and tell me to grow a pair.

With that obnoxious presence in mind, as well as the strength my sweet wife gives me, I suck in air and pick up the phone. My voice isn't even all that unsteady. 

"Uh, hello?"

"Yes, may I speak to Stanley?"

"Uhm. This is, this is he." I gulp.

"Stan, hi, it's Mike. Been a long time." A deep voice, but something in it lets me know, this is Mike Hanlon from Derry. 

My palms are clammy, my throat feels like it's closing up. Come on, Stan. "Is it time? Is it back in Derry, Mike?" As my heartbeat thunders in my ears, booming heavily, I try to slow it down by hoping. 

Maybe Mike is calling about our high school reunion, or with news about the others. I've heard about Bill writing novels, and Richie does some sort of comedy show--Of course he never stopped talking--but Mike shatters all this by speaking slowly. Seriously, darkly.

"Yes. It's time again, Stanley."

++++

_**Richie.** _

Oh, fuck me.

What a fabulous night, first I get fucking booed offstage because my jokes don't work, or something. Apparently it's gross when a forty-year-old mentions masturbating in a comedy routine. It's offensive to all the edgy little hipsters who come to watch me with the express purpose of creating "dank memes" yeah, I'm on to you, you little shits-- I know the lingo. Richie Tozier has still got it. 

Apparently awkward humor isn't funny anymore. We have all the youngsters running around on their phones calling themselves trash. Well, maybe you oughta learn to recycle! That's what comedy is, spinning crap to make it new, and I'm a trash mouth who spins shit my own way. Eighties SNL giants taught me that. Forget everybody else. Beep beep, Richie. Shut the hell up. But I tell it like I see it, okay? Even to losers I haven't spoken to in almost thirty goddamn years, when they call me up in the middle of the night saying I have to get back to Derry. Yeah, right. 

"...You've gotta be fucking kidding."

"No, Richie, I'm not." 

Like I said, fuck me.

+++

_**Beverly.** _

I'm out again on my own.

This time I left the house, threw that giant TV down the stairs and I really hope it hit him. Or failing that, one of the screen shards cuts his feet up later. At least then I wouldn't directly cause the death of another man, even unintentionally.

The memory is incredibly fuzzy, but I know that I was the death of my father. Caused it. He's dead because of me. I know he did things, even in the fuzziness of my mind. He was the first, but definitely not the last. 

How, how do they find me?

I'm on a bus this time. Paid cash for my ticket, have all my stuff. Might head for Portland again--or I would, if my family would take me. My aunt said I was bad luck before I left. Have a dark cloud over me, she said. Darkness, and blood. I do remember that, all too well. And I've always gotten nervous in bathrooms. Can't bend over a sink; can barely lean forward far enough to wash my hands. But I do, because I have to.

I do a lot of things because I have to.

I receive the first phone call just before I switch buses. My cell rings and it's an unknown number, so I hit Ignore because it's either a telemarketer or him trying to get me to come back. And if I answer he could track my phone, or have someone whom he works with do it.

I get another call, though, later. Long enough later that I've nodded off to sleep uneasily with my head on my coat and the cold window. More like I'm dozing fitfully, I jerk a bit, nodding off. This phone call rings all eight times and I still don't answer, because even though its area code isn't from the city, he could be using another phone. A burner, maybe. Goes to voicemail and a blinking light shows that I've received a short message. Can't be him, his messages are always two minutes long, at least. But this one lasts less than thirty seconds.

My abdomen clenches as I swallow and lift my phone to my ear. 

"Hello, Beverly? This is Mike. From Derry, and the Losers Club. You might not remember, it's been a long time-- but Bev, it's back. And I need your help. I need everyone's help, because we all made a promise. A blood oath, to Bill. I'm still here, and well, I hope you'll come. You can call me back at this number if you want to. Thanks, uh. Goodbye." I hear the uncertainty then, the huff of air as Mike hangs up. First bit of being uncertain. My hands are shaking as I let out a shaky breath of my own. A breath I feel as though I have been holding for twenty-seven years.

++

_**Ben.** _

Winter fire, January embers. My heart burns there too.

I write that, jot it down in my books, as my board fellows tell me figures for the year, and I create houses for people, families. If I can't have one of my own, I can make a place for others to live, and hopefully live well. 

Though I could have a family if I wanted; I'm told how much of a catch I supposedly am, with my architecture company, my business built from the ground up. I've worked really hard to be made of the right stuff. That's what she asked me, if they had it, and that's what I strive for still. 

I need something else, though--or someone. Someone I haven't got. Several someones, actually. I find myself writing out groups of seven things. Find myself grouping with sevens. They mean something. Something important. Something akin to family. Somehow. I don't quite remember.

But I keep on thinking, wondering, writing and working. 

And that's when I hear the phone ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got my own personal thoughts about Beverly's husband and what he might do (thus, what she may also do) that are not necessarily congruent with films or book.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


End file.
